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would cheer him up so, wouldn't it? I'm sure we ought to try to make him happy—poor
Tom! He says nobody cares for him!"

Mrs. Triggs had not paid much attention to the conversation, but she now turned her head
sharply round.

"Is that my Tom you be speakin' of? His mother cares for him more'n all the world! He was
such a handsome baby—took arter his father—who were a fine, upstandin' man, but with a
taste for the beer. Tom be made arter the same pattern. An' I says if God and Natur' made
him so, why blame the poor lad? An' he never have given his mother an unkind word!"

"I like Tom very much," Harebell answered her eagerly. "And when Aunt Diana comes back
I'll beg her with tears to let me go and see him, and I'll find him a wife as quick as ever I
can!"

"A wife?" screamed the old woman. "You let my Tom be! What do he want a wife for? He
have a good home, and there isn't a girl in this village who'd do him aught but harm. Idle
worthless hussies they be! Go on with you! A wife, indeed!"

Harebell looked frightened. She said good-bye and slipped away. Miss Triggs said in a
whisper to her:

"Never you mind mother, dear. She don't mean to be rude, but she don't take kindly to a
wife for Tom, and I can't say he ought to have one, unless his heart gets changed, and his
life too!"

Harebell went back to the Rectory slowly and thoughtfully, but when she found Peter and
Nan had put up a swing in the orchard, and were enjoying themselves upon it, she joined
them gleefully. They forgot their squabble, and she was a happy light-hearted child again.

The return of her aunt was the next event. Mrs. Garland kept her till after the arrival, and
when Harebell went home the next day, the whole house seemed to have altered its ways.

There was a man's coat and hat in the hall. A strange man-servant was sitting in the
pantry talking to Andy. A little cheerful bustle pervaded the house. There was a smell of
tobacco in the morning-room. Two or three newspapers and pipes lay on the table.

Mrs. Keith came out of the drawing-room to greet Harebell. The child was so startled at the
difference in her aunt's face that all fear of her vanished. Putting up her slim little arms,
she clasped her round the neck.

"Your ice has gone!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so very glad!"

And Mrs. Keith did not stare, or frown, or reprove her coldly for such words. She looked
tired, but very happy, and there was a light and softness in her eyes that had never been
there before. "Would you like to see your uncle? You must be very quiet, as he is quite an
invalid at present. But I have told him about you. Come this way."

Harebell trod on tip-toe, with eager eyes and a beating heart. On a couch near the open
window was a grey-haired man propped up with pillows. His hands looked white and thin;
his face was lined with pain; he had a hooked nose, and thick bushy eyebrows, but when
he saw Harebell, both his lips and eyes smiled.

"The little niece! Come and welcome a poor old sick soldier, who isn't worth the trouble he
gives."
"I'm so very glad you're here," said Harebell standing before him with clasped hands. "Me
and God have talked you over often, and God seemed to tell me He would send you back
soon."

If Colonel Keith was surprised at such a welcome, he did not show it. He looked at his wife,
and his eyes grew soft and tender. Then he spoke to Harebell.

"Life deals hardly with those who quarrel with her. Don't you let your passions ever get
mastery of your love, little woman."

"I don't understand a bit what you mean."

"And there is no need that you should," said her aunt a little sharply.

Colonel Keith put his hand on his wife's arm, as she stood by his couch. Her voice softened
at once.

"Come and sit down and talk to your Uncle Herbert; I must go away for a little. I have
letters to write."

So Harebell took a chair by the couch, and when her aunt had left the room, her tongue
began to move, and she poured into her uncle's ear a flood of talk. She told him of her
home in India, of Chris, of the Rectory children, of Tom Triggs and his sister and his
mother, of Fanny Crake and her mother, and the little cottage. But she did not talk much of
her aunt, and Colonel Keith noticed the omission. Harebell found him as good a listener as
Mr. Graham. She ended up by saying impulsively:

"I do like you so much, Uncle Herbert! You quite understand what I mean. I haven't to
keep explaining; Andy thinks me quite easy and understandable, he says, but Goody is
always saying I amaze her. I've always said I like men better than I do women."

"But you can't and must not like me better than your aunt!" expostulated Colonel Keith.
"You don't know what trouble I brought upon her by my hot temper and wicked pride! She
has suffered, and yet now has no reproach upon her lips. I'm a bad lot, and she's a saint!"

Harebell did not answer for a minute; then she said solemnly:

"I'll try and like you both the same."

Certainly she found life much gayer now. Her aunt and uncle were much together, and she
was left more than ever to her own devices; but when she was with them at meals, her
busy tongue was no longer repressed. Her uncle encouraged her to talk, and liked to hear
all about her lessons and play. Her aunt's voice was getting softer, her smiles were more
frequent. And as for Andy, his old face was radiant with happiness.

"Ah! The good old times have come back," he said to Harebell. "The days of mourning are
over for this old house."

The little girl nodded.

"I haven't to hush about the house any more, I can almost make as much noise as they do
at the Rectory."

It was not very long before she begged permission from her aunt to go and see Tom Triggs
again. Mrs. Keith did not actually refuse her; but she said she must wait. And then one day
at the Rectory, Nan informed her that Tom was very nearly well, and was going away from
the village altogether. Harebell was much surprised, and rather uneasy.

"Why is he going away? How can he leave his mother? Oh, I must see him, and ask him all
about it."

It happened to be a Saturday, and every Saturday, Harebell dined at the Rectory and spent
her half-holiday there.

"We'll go and see him this afternoon," suggested Nan. "Peter wants to see him, don't you,
Peter? Tom is making him a box with lock and key to keep his birds' eggs in. He's out of
hospital, and living with his mother."

"That will be lovely!" exclaimed Harebell. It was only when she was actually starting with
them, that she remembered her aunt had not given her permission to do it. With a little
hesitation, she told Nan and Peter that perhaps she had better not go.

"Go home and ask your aunt," said Peter; but Nan vehemently opposed this suggestion.

"We have no time. It's such a long way off; and if we go to the village, we can go on to the
woods and have some fun."

Harebell hesitated.

"I'll go," cried Peter, "on my bicycle. I'll go, and catch you up before you get to the village."

Peter had only lately owned a bicycle, so he liked to use it on every occasion.

Harebell brightened up.

"That will be jolly! And I don't believe Aunt Diana will say 'no' to you."

He rode off at full speed, and the little girls walked in the direction of the village. They had
barely reached it before he overtook them.

"Can I go?" Harebell asked him eagerly.

"Yes," he said.

She skipped for joy. Tom's future held a big place in her thoughts, and she was delighted
to see him again.

"Oh, do come on," she besought the others when the village sweet shop brought them to a
standstill.

"I want some bull's eyes," said Peter.

He wheeled his cycle up to the shop, leant it against the wall, and then disappeared inside.
Nan followed him.

Harebell stamped with impatience: then determined not to wait for them, and walked on
quickly to Mrs. Triggs' cottage.

She had one more check.

Colonel Keith was coming out of the post office and met her. He was rapidly getting
stronger, and now got about in a low pony trap, which for the present, he hired.
"Hulloa!" he said. "Where are you going?"

"I'm with Peter and Nan. We're going to see Tom Triggs. He's going away."

"Oh, that's your friend, is it? And your aunt knows?"

Colonel Keith knew all about the forbidden visits; for Harebell had besought him to help
her, and he had been doing his best in that way.

"Oh yes," Harebell said with assurance; "she has given me leave to-day."

"And is it to be a wife, or work, or a cottage?" Harebell laughed, and ran on. She was
breathless when she stood at the cottage door.

Tom himself came to open it, and smiled all over his face when he saw who it was.

"Why, I thought you and me was friends no longer!" he said.

Harebell seized hold of his hand.

"Oh, Tom, dear Tom, don't go away! Do stay and have a little cottage here. I don't want
you to go."

He led her into the little parlour.

"Hessie be out to-day, and mother and me be mindin' each other."

"And how's your leg?"

Tom swung it slowly to and fro.

"Near as good as ever 'twas! You see, missy, I be what you call going on the tack. And I
have an offer of work in a town firm. 'Tis a contrac' for some big house, ten mile or so
away. 'Twill be a change and a beginning! But I ain't goin' so very far arter all!"

Harebell smiled.

"Did you get any message about Fanny? That's what she said—the drinking to be given up
first, and then the work and then the wife?"

Tom's eyes twinkled.

"That there Fanny be too forward. Her must wait till her is axed!"

"Oh, but I asked her; I besoughted her; I begged her with all my heart, to marry you just
as you were, and very quickly too! She was a great disappointment to me; I did hope she
would have married you directly you came out of hospital!"

Tom threw his head back, and laughed aloud. There was a clearer look in his eyes, and he
held his head higher than he had ever done before.

"I shan't sit down and cry, if her don't want me," he said. "I can't keep a wife just at
present. The girls be too expensive in these days."

Harebell was silent. This seemed quite a new Tom; a man who could scorn a wife was
beyond her comprehension.
"And you're never going to a nasty public-house again?"

"Ay, well, there be no tellin'; but I ain't visitin' the 'Black Swan' just now."

"Tom," said Harebell looking up at him with solemn eyes, "are you through?"

His eyes met hers rather gravely.

"Through? How d'ye mean?"

"Through the Door? You know I almost think you are. And I believe that's the first thing of
all to be done. I wonder if you did it first."

"I wonder," said Tom, in a low grave voice, looking over Harebell's head as he spoke.

"I wish you'd tell me. Because we'd be on the same side, then. I ask God every day to
keep me on the right side, the inside you know, and not to let me run out."

"Hi! Tom! Where's my box?"

Peter's shrill voice coming up the garden-path interrupted them. There was no more
opportunity for serious talk. Tom took the children to the backyard where he was working,
and for half an hour they stayed there chattering and watching him complete Peter's egg-
box. Then they left him, and went on to the woods, where they had a very happy time.

Coming home, Harebell said:

"Haven't we had a jolly afternoon? And isn't Tom Triggs nice? Quite different to when he
was drinking!"

Peter edged up to her.

"I want to tell you a secret. Go on, Nan; it isn't for you."

Nan laughed.

"I'm not a bit curious. You never have interesting secrets, Peter."

She obligingly crossed the road. Peter sank his voice to a whisper.

"You needn't think your aunt gave you leave to go and see Tom, for she didn't. You'd
better keep quiet about it, and not let her know you went."

"Oh, Peter, what do you mean?"

"Don't shout, you stupid! I did go to ask her; but she was out, so I couldn't!"

"But you told a lie! You said she had given me leave."

"I didn't!" said Peter, a little sullenly. "You asked me if you could go, and I said, 'Yes.' I
didn't say anything about your aunt!"

Harebell stopped still in the road. He dragged her on by the arm.

"There's nothing to make a fuss about! I didn't tell a lie. You needn't say a word about
going to Tom. Tell her you went to the woods, if she asks you."
"But I met Uncle Herbert, and told him I was going to Tom, and I told him aunt had given
me leave to go!"

"You were a little fool."

Then he changed his tone.

"Look here, Harebell, don't you get me into a row. Don't split, will you? You aren't a sneak,
and it would be awfully mean to tell tales. You see, your aunt and uncle are coming to
dinner to-night at our house, and they'd make a row over it. I only wanted you to have a
good time. I needn't have interfered at all, and it wasn't a lie, and of course they'd think it
was, they'd never understand. I'll never forgive you if you split!"

"Oh, I won't say a word about you! You needn't be afraid."

Harebell's voice was scornful.

Peter got rather red in the face.

"Such a fuss about nothing!" he muttered. "I don't expect your aunt will care where you've
been. You can tell her you had to come with us; you couldn't help yourself."

Harebell did not speak. Then she said slowly:

"I have told lies myself in India, but not since I've been in England. I couldn't have done it,
as you did!"

"I didn't tell a lie."

Peter left her and joined Nan. They were rather a constrained trio for the rest of their walk.
Nan remarked—

"You and Peter don't seem to have enjoyed the secret."

And Harebell said quickly:

"I shouldn't think so!"

When they reached the Rectory, Harebell said good-bye. She kissed Nan, but turned her
back on Peter.

"Remember!" he called after her threateningly.

"You needn't be afraid!" she retorted.

But she entered her aunt's house with a sinking heart.

CHAPTER IX
IN DISGRACE
HAREBELL had her tea in the schoolroom alone, as she very often did. Andy waited upon
her.

"There be visitors in the drawin'-room," he said. "'Tis like old times, gentlemen a-comin'
here! For years we've had nothing but ladies, and a few on them. Sir Robert Ferguson and
his lady have been to tea, and the Colonel be quite spry. What have you been a-doin' to-
day? Somethin' to get a scoldin' for! Mistress says to me, 'Tell Miss Harebell to go to her
bedroom after she has finished her tea, and stay there till I come to her.'

"Then she knows," said poor Harebell with a deep sigh. "Did she look very angry, Andy?"

"Very cold and quiet," said Andy. "What have you been doin'?"

But Harebell for a wonder would not tell him.

"Mayn't I go and see Chris?" she asked.

"Best not. I've given you the message exack'ly as it were given me!"

Harebell's tea almost choked her. She left it unfinished and went upstairs.

"It's no good," she said to herself as she sat down disconsolately in her little chair by the
window, "to say I'm not frightened of Aunt Diana, because I am; and she'll say I've
disobeyed her, and so I did. And I never, on my word and honour, meant to be naughty to-
day. God knows about me; that is one comfort. He knows I didn't mean to be naughty. And
as for Peter, he's the wickedest, meanest boy I ever knew, and I don't think I shall ever be
friends with him again!"

When she heard her aunt's step at last, she stood up with a beating heart.

To her aunt, as she came into the room, Harebell looked the picture of guilt.

Mrs. Keith's face was very hard and stern. "I have come," she said, "to have some
explanation from you of your conduct this afternoon. You not only directly disobeyed me,
and went off to see that drunken man, but you told your uncle a lie, and said that you had
my permission to do so. Do you remember what I told you when you first came here about
lies?"

"Yes," said Harebell miserably. "I remember quite well, but I haven't told a lie, I really
haven't."

"Don't try to cover up one lie with another; that is only making matters worse."

Harebell was silent. What could she say?

"Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"I don't know," faltered Harebell; "it was—was a mistake. I—I thought you'd given me
leave."

"How can you have the face to say such a thing to me? You know I did not."

"I didn't tell a lie," Harebell murmured.

Her aunt looked at her with an expression of disgust. "I suppose I was foolish to think that
you were a truthful child. My eyes are open now. If you had only frankly confessed, I might
have regarded it more leniently. However, I keep my word, I shall send you to school after
the summer holidays. Never will I have a child in my house who deceives, or tries to
deceive me."

Harebell began to cry.

"Oh," she sobbed in the depths of her despair, "if you were God, you'd understand!"

"Don't add hypocrisy to lies," said her aunt sharply. "You are not to come downstairs to-
night. Go to bed, and remember that I might have forgiven your disobedience—but I will
never forgive lying!"

She left the room.

Harebell flung herself on the floor.

"I shall never, never be happy again! I'm not a liar, I'm not even disobedient; it's all a
muddling mistake, and it's Peter, and not me, who ought to be punished!"

She began to feel justly angry with Peter.

"He'll go on living and people will think him a good boy, and I shall be thought a liar for
ever and ever! And school is a prison, and—oh, I never thought of it! I shall have to leave
my darling Chris! My heart will be broken. I wish I could die!"

She lay there sobbing her heart out, and Goody, entering the room later, was much
astonished and alarmed.

Harebell raised a white tear-stained face to her.

"I ought to be in bed," she said slowly. "Aunt Diana said I was to go. She thinks I've told a
lie, and I haven't, Goody, and I'm to be sent to school in disgrace."

"Dearie me! What an upset! You must get hold of the Colonel. He'll put things right."

A gleam of hope stole into Harebell's eyes; then it died away.

"He thinks I told him a lie. He won't help me. I'm what you call doomed, Goody."

She began to undress. She would give no explanation to Goody, for fear of inculpating
Peter.

She heard a carriage come to take her uncle and aunt to dinner at the Rectory.

She wondered if her aunt would tell them all there of her wickedness; and if so, how Peter
would feel when he heard it. She began to hope that perhaps his conscience would compel
him to confess and to clear her. But she remembered that Nan said once that Peter never
owned himself to be in the wrong.

Goody went away at last, and she was left alone in bed.

It was hours before she slept, and when she did, she dreamt that a school-mistress with
flaming red curls and bony hands was pushing her down some steep steps into a dark
cellar!

When the morning came, she wondered at first what awful thing had happened to her. The
birds were singing. It was a lovely sunshiny morning in June, and when she remembered
the trouble in which she was, she felt that some help would come to her.
"Aunt Diana won't really send me away. Peter will be sorry and tell."

Yet as she dressed, fear overcame hope. She ran softly downstairs and made her way to
the stable. Chris neighed in delight when he heard her step, and rubbed her all over with
his nose. Of course he was told all, and Harebell clasped him passionately round the neck.

"If they send me away from you, I shall die," she assured him.

Then the prayer bell rang, and she slowly went into the house. Her uncle did not come
down to breakfast, but had it in his room. He was still quite an invalid. Mrs. Keith hardly
spoke to her, but as she was leaving the breakfast-table, she said:

"Are you ready to confess the lie you told? Are you sorry?"

Harebell looked at her aunt nervously.

"I feel," she said, "if I said I had told a lie, that would be a lie."

"You will be in disgrace till you do confess," said her aunt shortly.

Harebell went to the Rectory with a heavy heart.

She could hardly say "Good Morning" to Peter. Nan asked her at once what was the matter,
and Harebell looked Peter straight in the face as she said:

"I'm in disgrace. Aunt Diana says I've told a lie, when I haven't. I'm going to be sent away
to school, and I shall never come back again!"

"Oh yes, you will," said Peter fast and eagerly, whilst his cheeks got hot and red. "School is
awfully jolly; and you always come home in the holidays. I wish I could get sent to school.
No such luck for me."

"School is enchanting," said Nan. "A girl in the next village goes to a boarding-school, and
she loves it. I don't pity you, if you go to school, Harebell."

"And how can I part with Chris?"

"You'll have him in the holidays," said Peter; "and p'raps dad will keep him for you when
you're away, and we'll exercise him for you!"

This was too much for Harebell. She turned upon Peter in a blazing fury.

"I hate you! I'd like Chris to kick you off and tread on you, if you ever dare to ride him. He
knows all about you. I've told him. And I've told God, too, and I'll never play with you
again, and I won't speak to you, and if you leave any of your birds' eggs about, I will
smash them in bits!"

"My dear child!"

Mrs. Garland had come into the room unnoticed.

Harebell's fury was stayed. She hung her head.

Nan was looking quite frightened; Peter red and uncomfortable.

"What has Peter done to provoke such an outburst?" Mrs. Garland said.
Harebell flung herself into her arms.

"I can't say, but I never tell lies, do I? Do I? Aunt Diana says I do."

"And does Peter say you do?"

Mrs. Garland looked at her small son very keenly.

"No—no!" he stammered. "I never said she did. It isn't my fault!"

"She's going to be sent to school, and she doesn't like it," said Nan. "Her aunt is angry
with her."

Mrs. Garland tried to discover what had happened, but neither Peter nor Harebell would
tell her, and Nan was as much in the dark as she was.

Miss Forster interrupted them, and lessons began. Harebell naturally did hers very badly,
but Miss Forster saw she was much upset and made allowances. When twelve o'clock
came, they went into the garden to play. Harebell left the others, and wandered round the
paths in the shrubbery, feeling very miserable.

"I'm not a bit like a child who is inside the Door," she told herself. "I've been in a temper
with Peter, and I'm sure I oughtn't to be. Jesus Christ wasn't angry when He was ill-
treated, and I know He doesn't want me to be. But it's very hard not to call Peter names.
He is the meanest—sneakiest—oh, I mustn't! But how can I love him when it's all his fault,
and not mine at all!"

It was a hard struggle with Harebell. Her sense of justice was great, and her punishment
she knew was not deserved. But before she left the Rectory she went up to Peter.

"I'm sorry I said I would like to smash your eggs. I won't. I'll try and forgive you. But
you're making me awfully miserable, and you know you are."

Peter walked away from her.

"You're making a fuss about nothing," he said; "you chose to think I meant what I didn't
mean. It was only a mistake."

He was feeling miserable too, but he would not allow it, and tried to make excuses for
himself.

"Such a fuss!" he repeated to himself. "It isn't worth thinking about. I'm sure Mrs. Keith
won't really send her to school. She'll forget all about it in a few days."

When Harebell went home she found her uncle pacing the garden paths. He called her to
him cheerily, and wished her "Good morning" as usual.

Harebell looked up at him wistfully. She longed to confide in him.

"Well," he said, "how have the lessons gone?"

"Very badly," said Harebell, shaking her head. "I've an extra lesson to learn for not
attending; but my soul was in such a state, that I couldn't work at sums, so they got
jumbled up."

Her uncle sat down on the garden seat and drew her to him.
"Tell me about it, little woman."

Harebell worked her fingers in and out of his coat buttonhole nervously.

"Do you think I told you a lie yesterday? I didn't. It was a mistake, not a lie, and Aunt
Diana won't believe me."

"How was it?"

Harebell was silent.

"I can't explain myself—but I'm telling true. And if—"

Here she got excited and waved her hands about.

"If Aunt Diana was to burn me, or flog me, or drown me, I couldn't say anything but that I
didn't tell a lie!"

"Try and explain," said her uncle gently. "Your aunt has such a horror of deceit and lying
that perhaps she did not give you time to speak."

"I can't tell her. She won't believe me. But oh, Uncle Herbert, I can't live without Chris. If
she sends me away from him, I shall die. I shall never live to come back. Please don't let
her send me away to school."

"I hope that will not be necessary."

Mrs. Keith came up to them.

"Harebell, go into the house. Until you confess your fault you are in disgrace."

Harebell turned disconsolately away. Colonel Keith said something to her aunt, which she
could not hear, but she heard her aunt's clear cold voice reply:

"It is her mother over again! I warned her when she came to me. There is no mistake. She
disobeyed, told a lie, and sticks to it. I will not undertake the charge of her any more. I
shall send her to a strict school, for I will not be responsible for her training."

With despair in her heart, Harebell crept indoors.

The following days were very unhappy ones. She grew very quiet, moped about the house,
lost her appetite, did not sleep at nights, and got a peaked white look upon her face. But
as time passed, she grew accustomed to her aunt's cold displeasure, and as no more was
said, began to hope that perhaps she would not carry out her threat.

The summer holidays came. The Rectory children went away to the seaside with their
parents.

For over a month, Harebell had not been allowed to ride out on Chris; but now, owing to
her uncle's intercession, she was permitted to begin her rides again.

Mrs. Keith hardly ever took any notice of her, but at last one day she called her to her.

"I have made all arrangements about school, and you will go next Monday. Goody will take
you. The school is at Eastbourne."

Harebell looked at her aunt with frightened miserable eyes.

Then her aunt said in a gentler tone:

"You have still four days before you. If you will frankly confess, and express real sorrow for
the lie you told, I may be induced to forgive you. Your uncle has made me promise that I
will."

Harebell's lips quivered, but she said nothing. She knew there was no hope now. Peter was
away, and was not coming home till after Monday. Unhappy as she was, the thought never
crossed her mind that she might break her promise to Peter.

The four days gradually slipped away.

She watched Goody pack her clothes; Miss Triggs had come round to make her some new
frocks, but she, as well as Andy and Goody, considered that going to school was nothing so
very bad after all. The only comfort that came to her was hearing from Miss Triggs that
Tom was getting on splendidly; he had signed the pledge and was keeping it.

"He's a first-class workman, Tom is, when he's sober, and we've heard his master thinks no
end of him."

Harebell was nearly desperate when Sunday came, and when she laid her head on her
pillow in the evening a tempting plan came into her head.

This was to get up very early on Monday morning, saddle Chris, and ride off with him out
of reach of all the people who were taking part in sending her to school.

"I shall go along and get my food in farmhouses where they make nice hot bread and have
cream with their porridge. I have five shillings of my own, and that will last a long time. I
will get lost where no one can find me. And then Peter will be sorry and confess what he
did, and aunt will be sorry too!"

The more she thought about this the more easy and delightful it seemed to be.

"Aunt Diana wants to get rid of me, and, if I go away, she'll be glad!"

Then, after a good deal more thinking, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER X
A LITTLE RUNAWAY

IT was a lovely summer morning. Harebell woke up a little before five o'clock. With a set
determined face she got up and dressed herself, stepping about her room as quietly as
possible. She tied up a nightgown and brush and comb and toothbrush in a bundle. Then
she began to think that she might want more clothes than that. She took a few things out
of her drawers, and put them into a red cotton bag which she tied round her waist.

Then on tip-toe, she stole downstairs, and softly unbolted the back-door. It was easy then
to find her way to the stable. Andy had taught her how to saddle Chris, and in about half
an hour's time she had got free of the house, and was cantering along the country lanes.
Then she remembered that she had not said her prayers. Her conscience began to trouble
her. Was this like a child of the Kingdom? Harebell refused to let herself think. In a
whisper, she gabbled over her prayers; for she felt that she wanted God to take care of
her, though she did not mean to mention her plan in her prayers to Him.

The fresh air and the birds' singing did not seem as enjoyable to her, as she expected they
would be. She passed through the village as quickly as she could, and took the road that
the signpost said led to London.

"Everybody goes to London," she said. "But I will stop before I get there. I'll find a nice
pretty farm, with apples in the garden, and they'll give me some breakfast."

But as time passed she began to feel hungry, and no pretty farm came in sight. The
country was singularly desolate. She came upon two or three small cottages by the
wayside, and an inn; but none of these seemed to her attractive enough for breakfast. At
last she turned up a leafy lane.

"I must try and lose myself thoroughly, Chris," she said; "so that nobody can possibly find
me and take me back. I feel quite frightened now, when I think of Aunt Diana finding me
gone. How very angry she'll be!"

Childlike, she was living entirely in the present. Her future never troubled her. The lane
wound about in a wonderful way, then suddenly ended. A white gate appeared and a high
wall on either side of it.

"This must be a house," said Harebell to herself.

She found the gate open and rode up a neglected drive; nettles and rank grass flourished
on either side of a mossy road. Overgrown shrubs and thick trees lined the way.

Her heart began to beat excitedly.

"It's like the palace grounds of the Sleeping Beauty. I wish I could have a real adventure."

The drive seemed an interminable distance to her, but at last, to her great delight, she saw
a big grey house in the distance. It looked still and deserted.

When she came up to the big flight of steps leading up to the front door she persuaded
herself that it was, indeed, the Sleeping Palace. Slipping off Chris, she let him turn aside to
munch at the long grass on the lawn, and then mounted the steps with eager expectancy.
Would the door open at her touch? Would she go in and find the remains of feasting in the
great hall, and the servants all asleep at their posts?

Alas! the door was fast shut and barred, the windows were shuttered, and through a small
peephole in a broken shutter, she saw that the inside of the house was empty and
unfurnished.

Slowly and reluctantly she turned away; then, seeing a side path near the house, she ran
along it, wondering if the back of the house would prove more cheerful than the front. She
found a side door, and to her joy, as she turned the handle and pushed, it yielded to her
touch. The next moment, she was inside a long wide passage. It was light, and looking up,
she saw there was a big glass dome high up in the centre. Rather fearfully she made her
way along, till she reached the centre hall. A great staircase wound up to a gallery round
it. She was just mounting the stairs, when she suddenly heard a man's laugh.
Now she was frightened. Into her brain rushed stories of ogres, giants, burglars, and
criminals. Panic seized her; she fled back along the passage, missed her way, got into
another part of the house, and could not find an open door anywhere. Then she screamed.
It seemed like some hideous nightmare. She beat and kicked against a door with her
hands and feet. The horrible thought came to her that she had been purposely locked in,
and that some wicked man would come and kill her.

Suddenly, from behind, a big hand laid hold of her shoulder. She screamed louder than
ever in real terror, and then she turned to confront Tom Triggs, and to hear him say with a
little gasp of bewilderment:

"Why, I'm blest if it ain't little missy!"

She clung to him in a tempest of sobs.

"Oh, take me out! Dear Tom, save me! Where am I?"

The next moment a door was opened and she was in the fresh air, with the sun shining and
the birds singing, and Chris still calmly munching the grass a little distance off. It took
some minutes to soothe and calm her, but Tom did it. He was in his working clothes, with
his carpenter's apron on, and looked strangely out of place in this great empty house.

"It's the funniest thing out that you should have come straight to the very house I'm
workin' at. Me and my mates were havin' our breakfast in the back yard. We are doin'
repairs to the stables, and all on a sudden we heard a scream, and it seemed to come
from inside the house, an' I come along to find out whether it be a ghost or a h'owl, and
then I catches sight of you a-beatin' your fists against a door. Now, do you just tell me
what has brought you here. Did you come to find out whether good-for-nothing Tom were
keeping off the drink?"

Harebell smiled through her tears, but she kept a tight clutch of Tom's hand.

"I didn't think of you. I didn't know you were here. I was a dreadful coward, but I felt I
was lost a good deal more than I meant to be. And generally when I'm frightened, I ask
God to take care of me; but I couldn't, and I felt He was a million miles away from me,
and wouldn't dream of coming near me. And then I knew it was because I must have run
outside the Door, and wasn't safe any more!"

She spoke with feverish intensity. Tom looked at her and then at Chris in a puzzled sort of
way. Then he sat her down on the broad balustrade at the bottom of the steps.

"Take yer time, missy. Tell me just how you come to be so far away from home this
morning!"

Then Harebell poured it all out, every bit of her trouble. She felt that she could even tell
Tom about Peter's deceit, after making him promise that he would not tell any one. And
Tom listened and rubbed his head, and then delivered his verdict.

"You must go back, missy; there's no help for it. You must get you back!"

Harebell began to cry. She was tired and hungry. She began to wonder how she had dared
to run away in such a fashion.

"Aunt Diana will be so very, very angry."

"But she'll be in a terrible state about you now. You can't bide alone in the world, trampin'
the roads without food and money. It be a stoopid thing to do—"

"I s'pose you haven't got a cottage yet? Couldn't you take me somewhere? I'm afraid of
Aunt Diana now. She'll never forgive me!"

"You must get you back," Tom repeated with conviction. "It be bad you're comin' off in that
fashion, but every hour you stay away, it be badder!"

Harebell looked up at him beseechingly.

"I don't know what to do. I can't go back."

"Oh yes, you can! I'll come a bit of the way with you, and if you trot your pony pretty fast,
you'll get home not so very late for breakfast after all. Would you like a sip of hot tea? You
wait here a minute."

He disappeared, but soon came back with a hot tin of tea, and some bread and cheese.

"'Tis mos' remarkable you comin' away in a straight line to the house which I be workin'
on! How did you do it now?"

Harebell drank the tea thirstily, then she looked at Tom gravely.

"I s'pose God brought me to you, so that you would tell me how wicked I was, and send
me back. I used to think when I first knew about you, Tom, that you were much wickeder
than I was. Now it's me that is wicked, and you're trying to make me good. It's dreadfully
wicked to run away, isn't it? Almost as bad as telling a lie."

"It's a poor thing to do—to run away," said Tom slowly; "but I don't know that I ain't just
done it myself! You see, I knowed how my old pals would be gettin' over me, so I come
away twelve mile off to make a fresh start where I couldn't be baited!"

"But you didn't run away from home, Tom. Your mother and sister knew you were coming."

"Bless their hearts, that they did! And I be gettin' along fine. And some day I hopes I'll
come back and be able to look my fellow-creatures straight in the face. For I shan't be
feared then o' nobody. An' I do allow 'tis a happy thing to feel inside the Kingdom's Door,
missy. I humbly 'ope I've crawled through, and the Lord be holdin' my feet straight, and
my mouth from even wanting the accursed stuff; and He have got me by His hand, so I
just steps behind Him, and He goes first."

Harebell smiled for the first time.

"Oh, Tom dear, I'm so very glad. I always did know you would get through soon. When did
you do it?"

"Well, I can't rightly say as to day an' hour—but I had a try in hospital, and then agen at
home—an' it seemed to me as one day I was for goin' in, an' the next for comin' out, an' I
didn't get much forrarder, so at last I gets down on my knees and tells the Lord He must
please do it all Hisself, for I were come to the Door an' He must do the rest. Bless His
name, He seemed to stoop right down an' get hold of me—a reg'lar safe grip—and there I
be—very afeared of myself, but very sure o' Him!"

"And do you think I've been naughty and so He's put me outside? Oh, Tom, do you think
you're inside now and I'm outside?"
Harebell's lips were quivering.

"I ain't no scholar, missy, but there be one chapter in the Bible I reads over and over and
over! 'Tis the one you mentioned first about the Door. If we be inside the Door, I take it we
be in the sheepfold; and if we be in the sheepfold, we be the sheep; and if we be the
Lord's sheep, He has us safe, sure enough, for it says, 'Neither shall any man pluck them
out of My hand.' You be right enough—just a slip—and you're a-goin' back now to say
you're sorry—an' I'm a-comin' a bit o' the way with ye!"

"I haven't said my prayers properly this morning," Harebell confessed with shame. "I
gabbled them through. I'll just speak to God here, if you go away—and tell Him I'm sorry."

Tom moved away, rolled up his apron, then caught Chris, and by the time he joined
Harebell again, the cloud was off her face.

She mounted Chris, and Tom walked by her side till they reached the high-road.

"There!" he said. "Now 'tis a straight road home, and you can't miss it. Good-bye, little
missy; and just put up a prayer for good-for-nothing Tom, will you?"

"I will," promised Harebell, "but p'r'aps You'll never see me again. I'm goin' to be sent to
school, you know."

She conquered a rising sob.

Tom looked at her thoughtfully.

"Ay, 'twas through me, you be in this trouble! Well, p'r'aps I can help of 'ee out."

"It will be too late. I shall be gone," said Harebell.

Tom rubbed his head.

The little girl added, "And you mustn't tell about Peter, you promised not to; and I don't
mean to tell."

"Well, you be doin' a fine thing, a-bearin' his fault."

Harebell rode away, waving her hand to her friend.

He looked after her in perplexity. "If I were a scholar now! But I'll venture on it!"

He returned to his work with a plan in his head.

And Harebell rode on home, feeling more and more frightened and unhappy as she drew
nearer the village.

"It all seems as bad as it can be, and when I say I've seen Tom, Aunt Diana will think I
went to him on purpose, and it will make her angrier still!"

Presently she met Andy at the entrance to the village. He threw up his hands.

"Ay! You naughty child, we've all turned out to catch ye! To think of your going off for a
ride this very morning when you're to go to school."

"I'm sorry, Andy. I'm coming back!"

"Comin' back! High time, too. The missis an' the master be in a terrible way. What did you
go to do it for?"

Harebell did not answer. Even Andy, her friend, was scolding her.

The house was reached. Andy took her pony, and when Harebell reached the front door,
her aunt met her in the hall.

"Come in here," she said. "Where have you been? Did you not know a cab was coming at
ten o'clock to take you to the station? It is now nearly eleven."

She drew her into the morning-room. Colonel Keith was not there. Harebell's heart sank
within her. She looked up at her aunt. Somehow or other, Mrs. Keith was not looking as
angry as she had expected.

"I am very sorry, Aunt Diana, but I meant to run away and never come back again; I quite
meant to. And—and—I met Tom—I didn't mean to meet him—he and me think God
managed it, and—and—he made me come home again."

There was silence.

"Where did you meet him?"

"At an old, old house far away. I found it by accident and—" here Harebell's love of
romance seized her, and she forgot she was in disgrace—"do you know it was exactly like
the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. It was still and silent, and the weeds were enormous;
and I quite hoped to see everybody asleep, and all that was left of the feast. And then I
got into the house and found it empty and dark, and I was dreadfully frightened, and I
couldn't find my way out, and I thought I was locked in; and then I screamed and
screamed, and Tom heard me and came to me, and he's the carpenter who's mending the
stable there!"

She paused for breath.

Her aunt was silent for a moment. She seemed to be turning over things in her mind.

Harebell put her arm out timidly and touched her aunt's arm.

"Do please forgive me, Aunt Diana. I know it was wicked of me to run away. I knew when I
did it that it was, and that made it worse, didn't it!"

"What made you come back?" her aunt asked sharply.

"It was Tom. I wasn't even going to do it for him, but when he told me he was inside the
Door of the Kingdom and would never drink any more, I was so glad, it made me—well, it
made something different in my heart—and I knew I must come back if you—if you
whipped me to death!"

She ended her sentence with desperate emphasis.

"I have never yet raised my hand against you," her aunt said gravely.

"No, but I thought you might," Harebell replied quickly. "I thought of such a lot of things
you could do to me; but, you know, it was God and Tom who made me come back. I had
to."
"It was exceedingly naughty of you to think of running away. If you had gone on, you
might have met with accidents. We should, of course, have followed you and brought you
back before the day was over. And nothing then would have prevented my sending you to
school to-morrow. A little girl who acts like that wants a great deal more discipline than I
can give her. But as you turned back of your own accord, I am going to forgive you. I have
received a letter from Mrs. Garland this morning. If you had been here at breakfast-time,
you would have heard about it. Of course, the letter has explained what you ought to have
explained to me long ago—"

Harebell's eyes were open wide.

"What?" she gasped.

"It seems that Peter has been unhappy a long time, and confessed to his mother yesterday
that he was the cause of your disobeying me. Why did not you tell me so before?"

"I—he—I promised him I wouldn't tell," faltered Harebell.

"You had no right to promise such a thing. It was not being frank with me, and led me to
think what was not true—"

"I—I told you it was a mistake I made, and not a lie," said Harebell. "I couldn't explain
properly; I really couldn't, Aunt Diana."

Tears came into her eyes. She was relieved that she was cleared of untruthfulness, but she
still seemed to be in disgrace.

Then Mrs. Keith spoke more gently:

"I want to be fair with you, Harebell. I am deeply thankful to find that you did not tell me a
lie, and to think that I can still trust your word. And for the present, I shall not send you to
the school I intended for you. As I told you just now, if you had not come back of your own
accord, I should still have done it. But as it is, Miss Forster will still continue to teach you. I
am sorry to think that there is so little confidence between us that all this trouble has been
the result. You ought to have told Peter at once that you could not withhold truth from me.
You did not tell me an untruth, but you withheld the truth, and both are wrong. Do you
understand me?"

"Not quite," said Harebell; "isn't it wrong to tell tales?"

"Not if it helps to deceive. Your not telling about Peter helped to deceive me; and I acted
wrongly because of it. I want you to remember this, for people have made themselves and
others very miserable because of it. If shielding one person makes another act unjustly, it
is wrong. Now I shall say no more—you had better have some breakfast."

She stooped and kissed Harebell, then led her into the schoolroom, where some food was
awaiting her.

Harebell began to feel much happier, and when her uncle came in presently, and told her
how glad he was to hear that the mystery was all cleared up, she heaved a deep sigh and
said:

"I feel as if a heavy weight has lifted out of my chest. And now that aunt has forgiven me,
and I'm not going to school, may I tell you about Tom?"
 CHAPTER XI
TOM'S LAST EFFORT

THAT very same evening, Mrs. Keith received an ill-written letter from Tom:

"MADAM,—This is to say as little Miss to my sertain nowledge have not

toled a lie. There be anuther party in the bisness wich if you cud
discover wud be rather near home but I am pleged to say nothing. They
that lives most with her knows and is hidinge the truth.

"Your obedient servant

"TOM TRIGGS."

Mrs. Keith showed this to her husband. As Harebell was cleared, they did not tell her
anything about it, but Tom was written to and thanked for his intervention.

And very soon the Rectory party returned from the seaside. Peter and Harebell had a very
solemn interview. He was made by his mother to come up and tell Mrs. Keith exactly what
he had said; and then he apologised to Harebell.

She took his shamefaced apology very gravely. But when she began to relate to him her
runaway ride, he brightened up and was most interested.

"It's just like a story! What a pity you came back. I should have gone to sea!"

"I couldn't have. I couldn't have taken Chris with me. It was him I didn't like leaving."

"Girls never keep things up. They always get frightened and stop in the middle."

"What would you have felt like if I had never come back?"

Peter reflected.

"I think I should have told people it was my fault, and then I should have felt obliged to
run away after you to find you. That would have been good fun! I should have gone on the
donkey, and you bet I should have caught you up!" His eyes gleamed at the idea.

"I'm very glad I didn't go on. It's horrid if you feel you're quite alone in the world. I felt
when I was in that empty house, as if I had lost my friends and my home—and the most
awful thing of all—that I had lost God, and didn't belong to Him any more."

It was Peter's turn to look grave.

"I'm glad I'm not you, without a mother. Mother is ripping. She wasn't a bit angry when I
told her, only very sorry—and—well—loving. I was rather a cad, and, of course it was a lie
I told. I'm never going to tell another as long as I live. If I die for it, I won't!"

Peter clenched his fists determinedly.